Rabid
by Xany Kaos
Summary: What made Bosie the smirking psychopath he became? How does that twisted mind of his work? And can he even accept kindness without stabbing the one offering it in the back? may be slight romance later, but only if you squint
1. Dark Clouds Will Hover on Me

AN: GASP! Fanfiction on my page that _isn't_ Toad-related? Say it ain't so. Not only that, it's from a movie that...I didn't even really _like. _But this has been kicking around on my harddrive for over a year now and I decided, what the heck, might as well upload it now. Maybe actually having it up will make me write more of it. At any rate, there is far too little Bosie-fic (or indeed, any flavor of fandom) out there.

For those who need a refresher, Bosie was the albino bad guy in Cold Mountain(the movie). In the book, he doesn't even have the distinction of being albino...or anything but young, really. I liked reading about how they fleshed him out for the movie, and thought he could do with a little more fleshing out.  
So yes, there is a girl in the story. But really, this fic is just an excuse for me to get around and play with a character who's too creepy-cool to not have a backstory.

Comments are love. Apologies for any anachronistic liberties taken. History is not my strong point, though I did my best to look things up and make sure they weren't glaringly off. I couldn't find Bosie's first name (or his last, if Bosie's his first), so I'm going with Charlie, just because that's the name of the actor who portrayed him. If anyone knows the real name (if there is one), I'd like to know and amend the story accordingly.

* * *

He knew everyone in Cold Mountain, knew them in the casual way that you learned what to expect from the faces you saw every Sunday gathered in the square or at church. So to say that he met her the day they killed the dog would have been wrong. What it was, really, was the day that he became _aware_ of her, more or less, as someone other than another townswomen, until then set apart from the other girls only by the fact that when she glared at him, it was without disgust, and because once or twice, when they were much younger, he recalled having made her laugh. 

No one laughed much now, two years into the war, but they glared a lot more, cold and fearful. There had been laughter at the beginning, laughter and cheers and a parade even, for the town heroes who, by right of youth and fitness, won the prize of going off to fight for their way of life. Less cheers for those who remained behind, with the dubious honor of guarding the womenfolk and children. It hadn't been what he had chosen. But it gave him an excuse to shoot things and ride tall, and so it would do.

It was early fall, and he and a few others of the Home Guard were waiting for Teague outside of the store, when they heard the shouting. There was a wild dog running drunkenly through the main street, chasing after a small child, wet foam frothing from its red mouth. Bosie had his pistol half drawn when something shiny flew through the air and hit the cur with a resounding thunk. The dog stumbled a few steps, the fell heavily, twitching. A thick-handled knife stuck out from the back of its neck. No one approached it.

"Well, somebody shoot it and make sure it's dead." Her brash, practical voice cut through the silence. Bosie shrugged and, almost lazily, shot the dog in the head. It gave one final spasm, then lay still.

"Nice shot," she said sarcastically as she strode up to the creature and yanked the knife from it's neck. Curious, Bosie followed her, motioning to the others of the guard to see to getting the dog out of the street and buried far away. He saw her make a searching motion with one hand, then grab the hem of her skirt to wipe the blood from her knife, and handed her his already-blood-stained handkerchief. She took it with a look of surprise.

"Thanks," she muttered, wiping the blade briskly and putting it back in it's small sheath. "Thanks," she said again as she handed him the handkerchief. He only grinned.

Teague had finished checking the post and was directing the men in clearing the dog out and looking for any more infected animals. Bosie mounted his horse and followed, but not before making it a point to catch her eye and give her a smirk. She smirked back. That was a first, he thought.

Mabel Shrike. It had taken him almost a minute of running down a list to remember her name. Shrike. Mother was dead, or else he'd never seen her. Her father had been just young enough to still go off to war. She had a brother, too, a young boy that, now that he thought about it, he'd seen clinging to her skirts often enough. And he was fairly certain that she was the girl he had made laugh once, doing cartwheels and flips outside of church one Sunday morning, but that had been so many years ago it was difficult to tell.

* * *

He didn't constantly think on her after the incident, nor did he lie awake at night wondering if she thought of him, like in the books he had read. The only real difference was that he found himself noticing when she was around, instead of adding her face to the rest of the nameless sea that filled the town. He thought he caught her looking at him a few times, when most people avoided doing so. Once he had seen her brother, waiting for her outside of the store, and wordlessly produced a silver coin, which he passed from one hand to the other, making it vanish and reappear from unlikely places like his stirrup, or the ear of his horse. The boy had watched, enthralled, until his sister came out. Mabel had followed his gaze to Bosie, given Bosie a cool nod, then led her brother off, deliberately putting herself between the boy and the albino. Bosie clenched his fist, though his smirk never wavered, and resolved to stop noticing her altogether. 

Which did not explain why he found himself outside of church one Sunday morning, leaning against the side of the building, sucking on a grass straw while the congregation inside raised their voices in praise of God, who must favor the South over the North (though Bosie had never seen much evidence), and waiting. The townsfolk filed out after the service, chattering pleasantly among themselves. A few noticed him and sniffed, or looked away quickly. He leered at them, unconcerned. Then she walked out, leading her brother by the hand.

"Mornin', Miss Mabel," he drawled, touching the brim of his hat. She started, caught herself, and smiled.

"Good morning, Mister Bosie." She shooed her brother off toward the square, where other boys were already playing, then turned back to Bosie. "We missed you in church this morning." He snickered and looked away, grinning.

"Naw, not hardly. Church don't miss me. Don't welcome me much, either."

"Now that's nonsense--everyone's welcome in church."

"In that case, I just don't much care for it." He eyed her from under the brim of his hat, trying to make her uncomfortable. She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, ain't that a shame for your immortal soul."

"It was damned long afore I was born," he said pleasantly. If she understood his meaning, she gave no sign.

"Well, that's just too bad, I suppose," she replied. As she walked off, she called over her shoulder, "We could certainly use another tenor."

Bosie blinked and sucked musingly on his grass straw as he watched her collect her little brother. He was fairly certain he'd just been insulted.

* * *

"By order of Zebulon Vance, Governor of this great state of North Carolina: any soldier turned deserter is guilty of treason and shall be hunted down like a dog. Any man takes in a deserter is likewise guilty of treason." Bosie read the proclamation to the gathered townsfolk with relish, savoring the idea of finally seeing some action, even if it was only hunting down deserters. It was like divine justice, really. In the back of his mind, he half-hoped that his brother Milton might take it into his fool head to desert. 

The people around him started muttering quietly to themselves, too frightened to loudly voice their discontent at the situation. Next to him, Teague elaborated on exactly what was meant by Governor Vance's orders. Bosie leaned against a railing, arms crossed and smirking, eyeing everyone in the crowd individually, a silent threat. He had learned, over the past three years just where the townsfolk's fear of the over-bearing Teague stopped, and where their fear of his quiet, smirking, pale-as-death watchdog began.

As the subdued crowds began to disperse, Bosie made his way to where his horse was tethered. He was tightening the saddle girth when he heard a voice behind him.

"You seem awful pleased by all this." He turned to see Mabel standing at his elbow, looking disapproving.

"Am," he said simply, doing something useless with the straps to give himself more time to stand and talk.

"Why? D'ya think they'll thank you for killin' what kin manage to come home to them. We've all got husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers out there. D'ya think any one of us cares how they get home, so long as they come home safe?"

"That sounds an awful lot like treason talk." He turned around completely and looked her full in the eye, an eyebrow cocked. She didn't break from his gaze, but instead leaned forward so that only a foot of space separated them.

"What if it is? Why should our men go and die for some rich man's slave? The boys that do come home at the end of this mess'll be few enough without your lot killin' 'em too." He only grinned, an expression better suited to a skull, and swung himself up into the saddle. "Would you really kill men that come so far just to get home?" she demanded.

"Sure would," he said cheerfully. "And what's more..." He leaned down as far as he could, so their noses were almost touching, and whispered, "I'd enjoy it."

This time she did step back. For a long moment they just looked at each other, angry brown eyes searching calm blue ones. Then she spoke.

"There's somethin' wrong with you, Charlie Bosie." Her voice was little more than a trembling whisper. "Somethin' wrong on the inside. Like that dog. Sick." She whirled around and hurried off. Bosie stared after her for a moment, then kicked his mare into a run and followed after the rest of the Guard.

* * *

After that, he had made it a point to mention to Teague that the little Shrike farm, so far up in the mountain, might be a stopping-ground for some of the rumored deserters. Teague was nearly as anxious as Bosie to see some action in this great war, but insisted on doing a full investigation of the farm before taking any action. They were in charge, it was true, but it wouldn't do to be seen razing the place to the ground unless they actually had deserters to show for it. There would be plenty more coming, if reports from the front had any truth to them. 

Winter was setting on when they rode to the farm. The first snows hadn't fallen yet, but harvest was mostly finished. There had been a town harvest festival not two weeks past, that the Home Guard had stood watch over. "Lurking" some of the townsfolk had said, and maybe in Bosie's case, they were right. Unlike Teague, who was still trying to make time with the pretty, if useless, Ada Munroe, or the rest of the boys, Bosie had just leaned against a hay bale and watched the festivities without taking part in them. He never did. In fact, the only movement he had made was in taking a glass of cider from the table where Mabel and Mrs. Swanger were setting them. Mrs. Swanger had glanced quickly in his direction and remembered another full pitcher on the other side of the room. Mabel, however, had just watched him, the way one watches an unknown animal. He'd given her a grin that soured when she turned away, and gone to an empty corner to nurse his cup of cider, glaring at the rest of the townspeople. And at her.

She glared at him now, as the Home Guard began spreading out through her farm, even though it was Teague who was explaining to her why they had come and what they planned on doing. He smirked back, doing his best to make it clear exactly who was responsible for bringing the guard.

"There's no'n here but me an' Jacob," she said, shoving her brother behind her defensively. "But, o'course, yer welcome t'look all y'want. I'll even show y'all around, if that's what y'want." Bosie frowned; he'd expected her to put up more of a fight. Teague caught his eye and nodded in her direction. Bosie took his meaning and hopped down from the horse.

"Y'darn right we'll look if we want," said Teague. "Don't you be fergettin' who holds sway in these parts."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." Closer now, Bosie could see she was trembling slightly, and her hand was clenched.

"Th'rest o'the boys'll look on their own, but I reckon you'd better show me around, just so's we don't miss nothin," he drawled. Mabel stiffened, then nodded and walked off, holding her brother close in front of her.

"Ah told y'all, ain't no one here," she said to him when they'd walked further away. She was leading him to the chicken coops first.

"Don't know why you have to come 'round here lookin' for trouble."

"How old's your brother?" Bosie asked suddenly, as if he had heard nothing. Mabel looked stricken.

"He's ten," she croaked, her voice breaking. Bosie glanced down at the wide-eyed child and snickered.

"Boy's eleven if he's a day. Maybe even twelve." Mabel trembled and held him closer to her, shaking her head, more in a plea than in denial. Bosie laughed again. "Don't you worry none. Army doesn't start askin' for 'em 'til they're at least thirteen or fourteen, an' even then it's not likely."

"Good," Mabel whispered fiercely. She handed Jacob a basket. "Why don't you collect the eggs while we're here, Jacob, hun. Just because some bullies come 'round doesn't mean chores stand still." The boy nodded and set to work.

"'Good?' Where's your sense of pride, woman? Y'should be glad ta see your brother go off an' fight for his country."

"Can't eat pride," she said shortly, grabbing a pail and starting toward the cowshed. "Pride don't keep you warm at night."

"An' yer brother does? I shoulda figured." Mabel's face turned almost as pale as his, and her body shook with fury. There was a lingering pause in which Bosie half-wondered if she would try to strike him. She let out a shaking breath.

"Well, I guess you'd know all about things like _that,_ Mr. Bosie," she spat, then whirled around. He caught her wrist and spun her to face him.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he murmured, pulling her closer and twisting her arm at a cruel angle. He put his other hand behind her back. "What's say I show you some of th' things I know all about right here. No one would bother us." She struggled, cursing, and he laughed quietly and fingered a strand of her hair. "I could, y'know, if I wanted to."

"And if Ah wanted to," she snarled through grit teeth, "Ah could make a woman outta you." Bosie glanced down to see her free hand holding the same knife she had killed the dog with over a certain area that was dear to him. He snickered and grinned lopsidedly up at her, then pushed her away lightly.

"So now you want to neuter your rabid dog?" His voice was light; in fact, he found the whole situation rather funny. "Spit on the outcast son of Cain in your own way?"

"Ah told yah, Charlie Bosie, what's wrong with you--it ain't nothin' on the outside. Got nothin' t'do with yer birth and everything to do with some sickness that's eatin' away at yer own heart." He snickered again, wiping the trickle of blood that had started from his nose, enjoying this play immensely. "Get yer bullies off my property. They've done had plenty of time t'search for what ain't here in the first place." She held the knife ready at her side. He smiled and bowed elegantly, then strode back to where Teague waited and mounted his horse in one fluid, graceful motion.

"Ain't nothin' here, sir. We'd best go an' check the Swanger's farm--his boys deserted nigh three months ago. They've had plenty of time t'get back t'their pa."


	2. Through Death's Dark Veil

AN: I guess this is as good a time as any to say that Cold Mountain is copywrite them that it's copywrite, and them ain't me. Furthermore, I, like half the folk on this site, am just a poor student, so taking any kind of action for writing this, unlikely as that would be, would only result in a headache, and possibly enough monetary compensation to buy a victory chalupa. That is all.

* * *

_

* * *

_

_"That's what you call a conundrum. I tell you what I've got on my side. "  
"What have you got on your side?"  
"The confidence of youth."_

The world around him exploded and went white. He'd been knocked over, he thought, but he couldn't really tell if his was lying on his back or standing or floating, or even in his body anymore. It didn't hurt, it didn't feel like anything but a hard kick in the chest, and through it all, he found himself detachedly wondering how long it would take him to die.

* * *

"Jacob, you have to hide the snares around the brush. No rabbit in it's right mind is going to be--" Mabel stopped short and stood up. Gunshots. Not too far away, up the mountain, on the other side. She'd heard rumblings earlier, but dismissed it as cracking ice. There was no way to say the same now. "Jacob, get back to the house."  
"Wait a minute!" Before she could protest, her brother had shimmied up a tree and was peering out over the mountain.  
"Jacob, whatever's happening over there it don't concern us, now get down and get back to the house right--"  
"There's a horse over there!"_  
_"What? Jacob..."

"It's comin' this way. I..." The boy squinted against the snow. "I don't think it has a rider." Mabel tensed up, impatient and worried. "No, wait, there's somethin'...hangin from the saddle..."

"Jacob, you get inside right now, or so help me, boy..."

"I'm gettin', I'm gettin'..." He slid down from the tree just as the sound of hoofbeats drew near. Mabel shoved him behind her. There'd be no use running now; anyone on horse-back would see them. The horse galloped into view, and Mabel noticed that, as Jacob had said, there was no rider. Except...a body?

"Oh my lord..." She rushed to the horse, making soothing noises as she grabbed for the reins and forced it to turn its head and circle until it had slowed. When it finally came to a halt, shivering and sweating, she could see the man hanging from the saddle clearly. Charlie Bosie. His whole left side and shoulder was stained a dark, wet crimson, and dripping ominously into the snow. Her fingers flew to his face--he was still breathing, shallow and slightly raspy.

"Jacob, you run to the house right now, and get some blankets and anything that'll make a bandage, d'you understand me? And put some snow in a pan and start it boiling." Without a word, the boy took off. Mabel carefully rearranged the young man on the saddle so that he was lying more naturally on it, and led the horse after her brother at an urgent but gentle pace.

* * *

"Izzee dead?"

"No, Jacob, he's just been shot."

"Looks dead."

"_Hush_, Jacob, grab that towel." Mabel grit her teeth as she worked the knife into the flesh, prizing the bullet out. It had nearly gone clean through the shoulder, but stopped just shy. When she finally got it out, she pressed a heavy cloth to it, and began bandaging the wound as tightly as possible. It seemed to take forever. Finished with the hard part, she took a towel and began to clean off the remaining blood. Jacob was right--he looked dead, pale as Rattlebones himself, blood flowing sluggishly from his nose, short, painful breaths coming far too long between. She gnawed her lip, eyeing him. People were supposed to look vulnerable while sleeping, and true, Bosie looked a little more like a human being, but even in sleep a hard, amused bitterness seemed to hang around his features. Even asleep, with his pale hair falling over his eyes like a child's, there was something just a little overwhelming--sinister, even-- about him. She stared at his face in thought, trying to understand her own mind, and gently wiped a patch of blood from his lips. It was odd to see them not smiling, smirking in that superior, detached way of his. Hopefully, he'd be smirking again soon. She pushed the cornsilk-yellow hair from his face and stood up to wash her hands. All that she could do now was wait and pray.

* * *

When the first bit of warm, yellow light crept below his eyelids, Bosie's first thought was that if this was Hell, his chest sure hurt bad enough, and his second was that, if this was Hell, the rest of him certainly didn't. He was fairly certain that Hell didn't smell like bread baking and soup cooking, and furthermore, in no book had he ever read of demons that hum. He blinked a bit and found that he could, tried taking a deep breath and found that he couldn't quite.

"Ah!" It felt like someone shoved a knife through his shoulder. Bosie tried to sit up to ward the pain away, and found that the movement only increased the hurting. "Son of a !"

"Well." He blinked and squinted to see someone standing over him. "Not exactly the first thing I expected someone to say after waking up from that, but it's good to see you back in the land of the living, Charlie Bosie. We weren't quite sure you'd make it."

"Who...?" His vision was still a little blurry, but the voice sounded familiar.

"Mabel. Mabel Shrike. How're you feelin'?"

"Like the devil himself kicked me in the chest with those cloved hooves o' his," Bosie grit out through clenched teeth. He tried to sit up again and felt her hands gentle help him up. He blinked in confusion. "Mabel?"

"Tha's right. We've...met...a few times before. Don't know if you remember."

"Rabid dog," muttered Bosie, remembering full well who she was now. His vision was slowly clearing, and when he looked back at her, he could see her nodding.

"Yeah, then. And when your men came searching for deserters." Her voice hardened a bit. Bosie settled back against the wall and smirked, staring at nothing particular in front of him.

"They're all dead. Every single one of 'em." He paused. "Why ain't I dead?"

"I don't know." Mabel had returned to the stove and was stirring something that smelled good. Bosie's stomach rumbled. "Maybe God likes you enough t'give you a second chance." He laughed out loud at that, a bitter, breathy, sincerely amused laugh that he immediately regretted. Cursing, he grabbed his shoulder and tried to press the pain away, while feeling blood trickling down his upper lip. "Y'know, if you ever--"Mabel turned around and started, grabbing a handkerchief. "Oh, for the love of...you've lost enough blood already, d'ya think you can stop doing that for one day?" she asked irritably, dabbing the blood from his face. He irritably batted her hand away, annoyed at being treated like a child. She acquiesced, and gave him the cloth that he continued holding to his face.

"I don't think God exists, let alone that He likes me any," he drawled, smirking under the handkerchief.

"That's a pretty awful thing to say, 'specially considering that it's only by the grace of God that you're sitting there, dripping blood on my blankets.

"Thought it was by the grace of _you_, really."

"Just doin' God's work, then."

"Well, why don't He come down here Himself and do it?" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned. Mabel just shook her head, her lips set in a thin line.

"It'd break your mama's heart t'hear you talkin' like that. She was a fine, faithful Christian woman."

"She was a slut and a fornicator, who hid in religion when she saw where her sins got her." Bosie gestured with the hand holding the bloody handkerchief to indicate himself. "And I broke her heart the day I was born. Her very own scarlet 'A'--or 'I'." He smirked without bitterness. Mabel made as if to protest, then blinked and shook her head.

"You've read Hawthorne's book then?"

"Sure have. Read a lot of things. I'm an abomination, not stupid."

"You're not a--" She stopped, noticing his expression. It was clear that the concept gave him less discomfort than it did others and that he enjoyed the fact. "What sort of things?"

"Hawthorn, Poe, Cooper, a little Melville, whatever my ma used to get to keep me inside instead of in the town. Read a lot," he repeated. His stomach chose that moment to churn loudly.

"Oh lord, you must be starving. Y'haven't had anything but broth the past three days." Mabel busied herself about the stove, ladling something into a bowl. Bosie watched her like a cat watching a mouse that it was too lazy to be bothered catching just yet.

"I been out three days?"

"Mm-hm. Like I said, we didn't even know if you'd make it, Jacob and me." She set the bowl and a plate of bread down near him. "Don't know if you'll be able to keep this down, so take it slow." She made as if to help him eat, but he stubbornly grabbed the spoon from her and fed himself, finding himself ravenous at the first taste. When he was done, she took the dishes.

"Thanks," he said. She looked surprised.

"You'd best just sleep for now. I don't expect you'll be able to do much for the next few days." He grimaced, hating to be weak when he'd fought all his life to be better than expected, but knew she was right. He could feel sleep stealing upon him. Before drifting off, he yawned hugely and fixed her with a hazy but steady gaze. She held his eyes, unflinching, and he tilted his head curiously. There was something...off. A question he meant to ask her or himself, something that her face made him think of, but he couldn't fight off the exhaustion any longer.

"Y'shouldn't've..." he muttered, before sleep claimed him.


End file.
